What the Scrolls Have Foretold
by marinoa
Summary: A civil war is knocking at the doors of Skyrim, the dragons have returned to terrorize the people, and rumours about a Dragonborn, a mighty warrior, spread across the land. This isn't enough to trouble Francis, who lives one day at a time, but when his path crosses the way of one peculiar mage, Francis suddenly finds himself at the very centre of the world-changing events. AU.


_Author's note:_ Hello, my fair readers! This story is going to be based on an RPG called Skyrim, which many of you probably know at least by name. Those of you who don't, please don't be turned away; understanding the fic does not require any knowledge of Skyrim. The background will be explained in the story, and any Skyrim terminology will be briefly explained in notes at the end of the chapter. Actually, if you're not familiar with Skyrim, I suggest you skip to the end and read the notes before the story to get the concept. To hardcore Skyrim fans: I'm not even close to completing any of the main quests, let alone the game, so my knowledge of the world might be a little limited. The plot will not be so much of Skyrim, but really just adventuring in the world. Also, for the sake of simplicity I will probably leave out all the non-human races.

The chapter names are all going to be from Skyrim soundtrack.

I hope you'll all enjoy this, but Leo, this is for you in particular.

 **What the Scrolls Have Foretold**

 _Scroll One: A Chance Meeting_

The rain was pouring like from a bucket on a chilly night when Francis first encountered a strange mage called Arthur.

Francis was soaked to the bone, hungry, cold, and at the point of growling at anything and anyone unfortunate enough to cross his way. However, he was travelling alone at the time and the road was very much deserted, so he couldn't be too picky about the objects of his snaps and snarls – rocks, puddles, and some pathetic rabbits had to do. The night had fallen hours ago and the downpour was showing no signs of ceasing, and the city of Riften was still miles and miles away – even if Francis continued walking through the night, he would not reach the town until the following noon.

As it was, however, Francis did not wish to travel through the night. He wished he had a roof above his head, a merrily crackling fire in hearth, and some pleasant company to share his honeyed mead with, but alas, that was out of his reach at the moment. The best he could now do was a ruin of an old watchtower that had been falling apart already long before Francis had even began adventuring, which was at least five years earlier, if not more. The tower lacked all the comforts of Francis' small house in Riften, but on the road one couldn't be too picky. At least he'd get under a roof and arrange a small fire to keep him warm.

It didn't take Francis long to reach the old tower, but there he was disappointed; the stash of firewood, which considerate travellers filled for situations like Francis', was damp, and the wood would not catch fire despite the Nord's* best efforts. As everything outside the tower was as drenched as Francis, the exhausted traveller had no other choice but hang his soaked cloak on a nail in wall and hope that it'd dry a little while he himself would attempt to get a little rest.

"Just my luck," Francis muttered under his breath, albeit a little unfairly; his luck was exceptionally good for most of the time – a crucial quality in his line of work, too.

He settled in the least uncomfortable position that he could in an empty, deserted watchtower, and closed his eyes, determined to force himself into sleep. However, he hadn't been long at it when he heard a rustling sound over the rain outside the tower. Francis' eyes shot open and his hand flew to his belt, where his fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger – and at the very moment someone pushed the swollen wooden door open.

Francis sat silently, unmoving, the dagger firmly in his hand – he was good at blending with the shadows even in illuminated environment, so remaining in stealth in almost complete darkness was child's play to him. He held his breath and waited.

"Bloody downpour," someone grumbled, and suddenly there was light.

 _A mage_ , Francis realised, now being able to see the person who had invaded his hideout. _Great_. Mages made tricky opponents, if hostile. The intruder stood barely ten feet away from Francis and had focused his eyes on the flame he had created in his both palms, so he had not yet noticed the other man lurking in the shadows. Good. Now, Francis should be able to -

The mage raised his hooded head to look around, and three things happened at the same time. First, the mage realised there was a wet cloak hanging on the wall. Second, Francis leapt on his feet and immediately rolled to the side in case the mage decided to throw a fireball. Third, the mage's eyes finally landed on Francis.

"Freeze!" the mage uttered, and it took Francis a second to realise that it was not an ice spell, but a command.

"Careful with those flames," he remarked calmly, eyes trained on the stranger and fingers ready to throw his dagger should the need arise.

Not all the travellers in the night were bandits by default, but there were enough thugs on the roads of Skyrim* to give cause for wariness. Neither Francis nor the mage let down their guards, but Francis noted that the stranger did not look hostile – probably a traveller like Francis. Still, it wouldn't hurt to stay cautious.

"Who are you?" the mage demanded.

"Just a traveller caught by the rain and in want of shelter," Francis answered calmly. "Who are you?"

"A traveller," the stranger echoed. "Are you alone?"

"I was until you came in. Am I to expect more company aside yours?" Francis asked, implying that he had been there first and therefore could not be suspected of any ill-will.

"No." The mage glanced at Francis' dagger, which Francis, on catching the look, lowered as a sign of good intentions. The mage lowered his burning hands as well, and, with a flick of his wrist, killed the flame in his right hand. "Why were you sitting here in darkness?"

Francis moved his arm in a large circle. "I do not possess the... magical tendency, and the wood here is too damp to catch fire." Never turning his back to the mage, he returned to his original spot. "Are you going to accompany me for the night?"

The sound of rain beating the ground filled the short silence during which the mage contemplated his options. Apparently travelling in the downpour was not in his best interests, either, as he moved further into the small room and looked around for something to sit on. Finding nothing for the purpose he shrugged and sat on the ground by a blackened, damp fireplace, keeping a good distance between Francis and himself. "I can make a fire," he said a little warily. "My magic is strong enough even for slightly damp material."

"Be my guest," Francis said, sincerely delighted. Lady Luck had not abandoned him after all.

After a little while the wood was crackling in flames, and Francis, for the first time during the whole day, smiled happily, warming his hands. Now that most of the tension had evaporated, he took time to observe his unexpected companion. The mage was young, surprisingly so, and judging by the face he was a Breton. He seemed almost scrawny beneath his soaked mage robes, and he had taken off his hood to dry it, revealing a messy mop of sandy-blond hair and noticeably thick eyebrows. But under those eyebrows Francis saw a pair of sharp, strikingly green eyes, like a pair of emeralds planted in the otherwise pale face. The contrast was fascinating.

"I'm Francis," Francis said in an attempt to strike up a conversation; he liked to talk with fellow travellers and hear their stories – something that remained in him from his times as a travelling bard.

The mage glanced at him cautiously. "Arthur," he answered reluctantly.

"Where are you going, Arthur?"

Arthur's brow twitched slightly, and Francis could almost read from his face how he regretted his choice to stay the night in the tower. "Nowhere in particular."

But Francis was not disheartened by his rejective tone. "You're of the secretive type, then," he uttered good-naturedly. "I myself am heading to Riften. Have you travelled a lot in these parts of Skyrim?"

"No."

"Have you heard any interesting news?"

Arthur gave him a deadpan look. "Not particularly."

Well. This mage certainly wasn't up to talking. Which was rather rare, considering that so many important news were swiftly spreading across the land, what with the smouldering civil war*, the unexpected threat of dragons*, and curious rumours about a Dragonborn*, a mighty warrior and dragon slayer. Of course, not all the travellers were talkative, but shutting up to this extent was almost suspicious.

"Really?" Francis asked. "Perhaps you truly haven't heard anything, then. It's not that surprising, come to think of it, seeing how social you are in company."

Arthur gave him a glare. "I'm sure you already know every rumour there is since you like talking so much."

Francis returned the look, but couldn't come up with a suitable response – he, who had refined his skills of speech in Bards College itself! It was so absurd that a mere ragged, travelling mage had left him without a neat comeback that Francis actually uttered a laughter. "Fine," he said. "Perhaps a hot meal will loosen your sharp tongue." He reached for his backpack. "Since you kindly provided the fire, I will make the most of it and cook us something to eat."

Suspicion on Arthur's face didn't go anywhere. "Cook a meal? I don't suppose you're going to go hunting in this -" However, the words died on his tongue as Francis fished from his pack some dried meat, a pack of vegetables, a cabbage, a bottle of mead, apples, and... a _pot_? "You had all that in your backpack?" he asked in awe.

Francis glanced at him and arched one of his eyebrows, amused at the genuine wonder in the mage's voice. "Indeed I did. For a traveller you seem surprisingly impractical. Must be the influence of Mage's College, or wherever they train you magic-users. You'd be surprised to know how much one can stuff into a backpack if you know how."

Arthur crossed his arms and said nothing. Francis took that as a personal victory. "What do you have in your shoulder bag if not food supplies?" he asked while hanging the pot above the fire and filling it with water.

"Oh, nothing much. A bottle or two of none-of-your-business, that's all."

"And here I thought we managed to move to friendlier tides." Francis put the meat and the vegetables into the pot and added some herbs. "I was even going to share a meal with you."

Arthur said nothing again, only looked more sullen than before. Francis heaved a sigh. "Of course I'll share it anyway. Don't be so serious."

The mage only huffed, but at least the sullen look on his face faded a little. Francis shrugged and turned his all attention to the stew. Telling the truth, he didn't trust mages, nor did he particularly like them. He didn't trust magic in general, and it didn't help that most mages he had encountered were usually hostile – either bandits, or practising some dark arts involving the dead. Besides, even non-hostile mages tended to be arrogant, thinking that knowledge existed only in the Mage's College in northern Skyrim, knowledge of which non-mages were unworthy. But Arthur didn't seem so bad. He sure was withdrawn into himself, but somehow he didn't seem so bad.

"Did you go to Mage's College?" Francis asked him and stirred the stew with a wooden spoon – soon it would be ready.

Arthur uttered a non-committed sound, and the Nord shrugged. If the mage didn't wish to share anything, so be it; after all, Francis hardly cared for him more than for any stranger who chanced to cross his path.

He tasted the stew, hummed in approbation, and reached for his backpack for a wooden plate and a tankard, and filled both with the stew. He offered the tankard and an extra spoon to Arthur. "I have only one plate, so you have to put up with this" he explained when the Breton glanced at the tankard.

"At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if you carried your entire tableware with you," the mage muttered, but accepted the tankard. "I, uh. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it."

They ate in silence – Francis had decided that if talking made his companion uncomfortable, there was no point in pressing – and when they finished, Francis began extracting the remaining juice into three small, empty bottles that he had taken out of his pack.

Arthur watched him. "What for is that?"

Francis looked at him with lifted eyebrows. "Are you serious?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't tell me you never prepare any potions for health for situations when you're wounded and in desperate need of extra strength."

"As a matter of fact, I don't. I heal myself with magic."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Well, _as a matter of fact_ , not all of us know magic."

Arthur didn't look convinced. "And you mean to say that some concoction will heal you?"

Francis proudly raised his chin. "I will have you know that I am quite skilled at utilising all the best qualities of ingredients and mixing potions of them. They might not _heal_ you, but they certainly give you strength. Didn't you feel your strength restore when you ate?"

Arthur paused and seemed to consider. "Well... I did," he admitted almost reluctantly.

"You mages truly live in another reality," Francis uttered, shaking his head. "A course on practicality in that College of yours would open up the world on an entirely different level for you."

"Hush!" Arthur hissed.

Francis' brow twitched. "Listen, you -" But then he heard it too: rustling outside the tower. While they had been eating, the downpour had ceased, making it easier to hear what happened outside the walls.

"Someone's there," Arthur said in a low whisper.

Francis agreed; there was more than one 'someone' outside, obviously trying to move quietly. If it were honest travellers, they would have either walked past the tower, assuming it was taken by bandits, or approached it openly on seeing the glow of fire. But these people were making an effort to stay unnoticed, so they obviously wanted to take Francis and Arthur by surprise, which meant, consequently, that they harboured no good intentions.

Francis moved silently closer to the wall, away from the fire, into the shadows. He gestured for Arthur to move on the other side of the doorway while he himself settled so that he'd be behind the door if the bandits decided to charge in, and drew out his one-handed sword.

For several moments all was quiet – nothing happened. Francis breathed in and considered climbing up the stairs to the upper parts of the ruins to have a look outside, but just then the door was kicked in and three men rushed inside with loud shouts.

Francis' muscles reacted even before his mind caught up with the situation. His sword-hand flashed forward and buried the blade deep between the ribs of the man closest to him. The bandit died almost instantly, without even having the chance to turn around and face his opponent – he hadn't been wearing an armour, only a fur coat. Francis turned to the second opponent only to notice that he was all covered in frost; Arthur had momentarily frozen him while casting fire from his palms to keep the third attacker at bay.

Before Francis could slit the throat of the frosted thug, the effect of magic ended, and the man jerked backwards. Francis had not expected that, so he bumped into his back and stumbled on the corpse of the man he had killed earlier. He managed to keep his balance, but the bandit (the living one) had regained his senses and now turned at Francis.

"I'll gut you here and now!" he growled and swung his sword.

"You can try," Francis jeered and easily evaded the attack. On the inside, however, he wasn't as confident as he let on; this thug was wearing a leather armour, same as Francis, and besides he had a shield for protection, something that Francis did not.

A yelp caught his attention and he cast a brief glance in Arthur's direction – one of the mage's hands was bleeding, and his opponent – this one was a woman after all – seemed to have the upper hand.

But that little glance cost Francis a second, of which his opponent took advantage and slammed the edge of his shield into the Nord's neck – or tried to. Instincts saved Francis from the direct hit, but the shield missed his neck only barely, hitting his upper chest instead. The impact sent Francis flying on the floor, almost into the fire Arthur had created earlier. The bandit prepared to strike with his sword, but Francis kicked the unprotected side of his knee and managed to scramble on his feet while his opponent regained his balance. Now they were equal again.

A woman's scream suddenly filled the small tower, but this time Francis didn't divert his attention elsewhere. Neither did the thug, not until a surge of electricity hit his back. He howled in pain, shocked, and Francis used the opportunity drive his sword through the man's vulnerable throat. The thug slumped on the floor, wheezing as blood streamed from his wound, and then everything was silent again save for the crackling of the fire and quiet drumming of the rain.

Francis rubbed his chest, the point where the shield had hit him, and looked around for Arthur. The mage stood near the door, and beside him laid a smoking, blackened corpse of a woman. Francis wrinkled his nose. "Let's drag these outside. Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Arthur answered. He flexed his hand that had been bleeding, but now Francis couldn't see a wound on it. Healing magic, probably. How convenient. "You?"

"A little bruised, nothing more. These thugs were amateurs."

Arthur hummed in agreement, and Francis went to help him with dragging the corpses outside. When they crouched to take the last one out – the one with the shield – Arthur picked something from the floor. "Is this yours?" he asked and held up an amulet with a broken chain. Francis' hands flew to his neck, and true enough – his amulet of Mara* was gone. The blow had probably broken the chain.

"Yes, thank you."

Arthur dropped the trinket into Francis' extended hand. "An amulet of Mara," he said almost scornfully.

Francis arched his eyebrow. "Are you interested?" he asked impishly.

"I will burn you."

Francis laughed out at his expression. "All right, all right. Let's finish the cleaning."

When the bodies had been disposed of, the two returned to the tower. The door had been broken when the bandits had stormed in, and there were puddles of blood on the floor, but it would have to do for the night. Francis wasn't too troubled by the bloodshed; he had spent a great deal of time on the road in the past years, and at some point one learnt to recognise bandits from honest people – and to kill them without mercy. Francis did not enjoy slaughtering other living things, human or non-human, but if the alternatives were his life versus the life of bandits, he didn't have to think twice.

Apparently Arthur had some previous experience in fighting, too, because now he merely found a spot as far from the blood as possible, and made himself comfortable by the fire. Francis felt his cloak and noted with satisfaction that it was nearly dry – as were his clothes. Come morning, he would be good to go. Now the only question was if he trusted Arthur enough to get some sleep.

The mage gave him an odd look as Francis sat down on his side of the fire. "Your ability to move in stealth is rather impressive," he uttered, although his tone implied that it hadn't been meant entirely as a compliment.

Francis' lips curved into a small smile. "Thank you."

"You don't appear too bothered by the fact that we just killed three people."

"Such is the life of a traveller. You get used to certain things. Besides," Francis added, "You aren't much in shock, either."

It was plain that with his comments Arthur was trying to make Francis reveal something about himself, but the Nord had decided that he would not be the only one to share information. If Arthur was reluctant to talk, Francis would not spill the beans, either.

When Arthur didn't comment his last remark, Francis smiled amiably, leant his back against the wall and covered himself with his now dry cloak. "I think some well-deserved rest is in order," he said, and closed his eyes. He was a light sleeper – another thing that his profession had taught him – but he did not intend to sleep now. While fighting with someone side by side did form a bond between people, he still did not trust Arthur, and highly doubted that the mage had any trust for him, either. So Francis merely allowed himself to drift into half-slumber, at rest but always aware, and relaxed his exhausted muscles. It had been a long day for him, already before the three bandits.

At first light Francis heard Arthur leave. He did not open his eyes to bid the mage farewell – why would he? – only listened to the light scuffle of his collecting his few belongings, and finally to his receding steps. When alone, Francis let sleep claim him at last.

Later in the morning he set off to Riften.

X

 **Notes:**

 **Nord** – A human race in Skyrim. In my story, Francis is a Nord. There's also another human race, **Bretons** , to which Arthur belongs.

 **Skyrim** – A province on the continent of Tamriel. Ruled by a High King and divided into several regions (holds), each of which is ruled by a Jarl. These are the capitals and the major cities of those regions: **Windhelm** , **Falkreath** , **Solitude** , **Morthal** , **Dawnstar** , **Markarth** , **Riften** , **Winterhold** , and **Whiterun**. Ultimately Skyrim is ruled by Empire.

 **Civil War –** Very simply, the war began when Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, killed the High King of Skyrim in a duel. Stormcloaks want independence from Empire, because they consider Empire to have betrayed Skyrim by making bad, binding contracts with another power, also outlawing worshipping a god called Talos. The Imperial Legion, on the other hand, considers Stormcloaks as traitors and condemns killing the High King. The two sides of the war are called **Stormcloaks** and **Imperials**. Stormcloaks follow **Ulfric Stormcloak**. TheImperials follow **General Tullius** , the military governor of Skyrim, and **Jarl Elisif** , who resides in Solitude (Jarl Elisif is the widow of the killed High King). At the moment, the war remains in a stalemate – nothing much happening.

 **Dragons** – According to a prophecy in **Elder Scrolls** , the civil war between Stormcloaks and Imperials will lead to the return of dragons. Dragons are led by a black dragon called **Alduin** , who apparently wants to destroy the world and mankind. Dragons are intelligent beasts, who can speak, and whose spoken language can be used to cast powerful magic, **Dragon Shouts** (Thu'um in dragon language).

 **Dragonborn** – According to a prophecy, a 'single individual', who is gifted with the same powers as dragons – the Dragon Shouts – will rise to fight Alduin. The Dragonborn has the power to absorb a slain dragon's soul and its knowledge and power (Shouts).

 **Amulet of Mara –** Mara is a goddess of love. In the game, wearing the amulet makes it possible for your character to marry. I don't know if wearing the amulet in the game is a sign that the person wants to marry or if it's just the goddess' symbol, but in this story the amulet of Mara is a symbol of love and seeking love.

 _If you got this far, thank you for reading! Perhaps I shouldn't be starting a new multi-chaptered fic when there are others unfinished, but whoops, couldn't help it. I'm quite exited about this one! I don't know how many chapters there are to follow, 5-10 perhaps? In any case, I hope you enjoy. Also, I think this is the first fic of mine where I wrote an actual fight scene._


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